


Life In Living Color

by Robinjay (Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells)



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 2009-2010 NHL Season, 2010-2011 NHL Season, 2011-2012 Season, 2012-2013 NHL Season, 2013-2014 NHL Season, 2014-2015 NHL Season, 2015-2016 NHL Season, Age Difference, Angst, But also plenty of angst, Compliance Buyout, Concussions, Drama, Fluff, Français | French, Friends to Lovers, M/M, NHL Lockout, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, ginger goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Robinjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny’s first impression of Claude is orange. Of course, Claude is wearing his obnoxiously neon Flyers jersey and his wild ginger hair sprouts from his hair in fifteen different directions, but even the flush on his cheeks seems to be even more of an orange-red than a pink. Danny blinks against the assault of color, and when he opens his eyes, Claude is standing in front of him with his hand outstretched and his face as earnest and determined as any rookie Danny’s ever seen. They shake hands, and a spark runs up Danny arm.</p><p>His first impression is orange, and his second impression is oh.</p><p> </p><p>Danny Briere loves Claude at first sight, but the world is rarely so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In Living Color

**Author's Note:**

> Pavot translates into "poppy" in French. All of the colors are also in French, because they're both French-Canadian and I think French sounds prettier than English in this situation

_ Orange _

Danny’s first impression of Claude is orange. Of course, Claude is wearing his obnoxiously neon Flyers jersey and his wild ginger hair sprouts from his hair in fifteen different directions, but even the flush on his cheeks seems to be even more of an orange-red than a pink. Danny blinks against the assault of color, and when he opens his eyes, Claude is standing in front of him with his hand outstretched and his face as earnest and determined as any rookie Danny’s ever seen. They shake hands, and a spark runs up Danny arm.

 

His first impression is orange, and his second impression is  _ oh _ . 

  
  


_ Jaune _

 

“It’s so bright,” mumbles Claude, lying on the ice. “Why is it so bright?”

 

Danny hovers over him as the trainers kneel beside Claude. An elbow to the head is all it takes to knock Claude out in only his third NHL game. The moment he hits the ice, Danny is there, calling for a trainer, a gloved hand on Claude’s shoulder.

 

The trainers decide Claude can skate off the ice under his own power and they lead him away, leaving the rest of the players to gaze on in horror and worry for one of their newest teammates. No one, not even the opposing team, enjoys watching one of their own needing medical attention. As hockey players, the threat of injuries, particularly head injuries, always hangs heavy over every game. Incidents like these simply bring those fears closer to the surface. 

 

Danny sticks around after the game--Sylvie has the kids, so there’s no need to rush home--and waits for the trainer to run his tests on Giroux. Richie, the captain, hangs around as well, but he has an actual reason for staying. When someone as new as Giroux is hurt, they lack the solid social support system that others on the team possess. Richie considers it his duty to fill the void, unless of course, someone else is willing to take his place.

 

“I can take care of it, Richie,” says Danny from across the locker room. They’ve both showered, and Richie is typing out something on his phone with his towel still around his waist. Richie looks up in surprise.

 

“You can take care of Giroux?” he echoes.

 

“Yeah, I got it.”

 

Richie raises an eyebrow, but he knows better than to question Danny right now (news of the impending divorce spread quickly, and many of his teammates have begun tip-toeing around him off the rink, as if he’ll shatter as easily as the ice he skates on). Danny watches as his captain dresses himself and leaves, thanking him for taking care of the situation. 

 

Giroux emerges from the trainer’s office squinting into the light. He winces, shakes his head, and winces again. Then he sees Danny, and his eyes widen.

 

“Oh, uh, Sal told me Richie would be here,” he says in stuttering English.

 

Danny stands and leans against his stall. “I told Richie I would take care of it.”

 

Claude squints again. “Take care of it?”

 

Danny crosses his arms, tries to assume the sort of parental voice which discourages all further questions and causes his kids to actually follow his instructions. “Well, for starters, I’m assuming you’re not allowed to drive.”

 

“I’ll take a taxi.”

 

“And that you need to be woken up every two hours, and that you have some prescription which needs to be filled. Am I wrong on any of those fronts?”

 

Giroux droops like an overheated flower. “No, you’re not.”

 

“Well, I thought I’d repay the favor you did me last week and help out. It’s the least I can do.”

 

Giroux opens his mouth to argue, but Danny’s glare stops him before he even begins. He seems tired, and the bruise across his temple is rapidly darkening to a lovely shade of dark purple. Without another word, Giroux gathers his things and follows Danny out into sunlight of the outdoors, this time with a pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes. When he leans against the headrest of the car, he presses his palm to his forehead and releases a soft groan.

 

“You sure you don’t need to be checked out at the hospital?” asks Danny, because he really does not want to be responsible if Giroux’s condition worsens.

 

“I just need to lie down,” says Giroux. “Preferably in a dark, dark room.”

 

Danny drives them quickly to the nearest pharmacy, the one the team always uses for filling prescriptions from the team doctor, and is in and out in three minutes flat. Giroux sits in the exact same position as before, although if anything, his skin seems paler, his freckles brighter against the sallow skin. His eyes remain closed beneath the sunglasses even when Danny starts the car, and his hands lie clenched in his lap.

 

Danny makes an executive decision at that moment, and he passes the hotel where he knows Giroux is still staying and continues driving all the way home. When Danny opens the door again, Giroux starts, winces, and then finally looks around at his surroundings.

 

“Why am I at your house?” asks Giroux carefully, reverting to his native French.

 

“Because you’re not staying in a shitty hotel when you’re hurt. Also If I’m looking after you, I might as well do so in the comfort of my own home.”

 

“There’s about a fifty percent chance I might puke,” warns Giroux.

 

“I have three boys, so I’ve cleaned up more bodily fluids than I really care to think about.”

 

Giroux’s face pales even further and a decidedly green tinge colors his cheeks. “Can we not discuss bodily fluids anymore?”

 

“As long as you come inside and accept the help I’m offering,” says Danny.

 

“Done and done.”

 

Giroux sways as he stumbles into the house, and he collapses on the guest bed the moment he’s able. Danny draws the curtains on the windows, throwing the room into utter darkness. He also places two pills and a glass of water on the bedside table, but Giroux is already asleep, so he’s reluctant to wake him. In two hours time they will begin the concussion check process, but for now, Giroux needs sleep more than anything else.

 

Danny cooks a chicken parmesan, one of perhaps three dishes he needs no recipe for, and tiptoes around the kitchen, careful to avoid creating any loud noise. After two hours, he returns to the guest room and pokes his head in the room. Giroux is lying on his back, arms spread wide and face still pinched, even in sleep. He will not appreciate being forced to leave the comfort of sleep, but Danny knows as well as anyone the risks of not doing so.

 

“Giroux,” he whispers, shaking Giroux’s shoulders gently. “Giroux, it’s time for you to wake up.”

 

Giroux groans and swings one arm around to cover his eyes. “Claude,” he murmurs.

 

“That’s your name, Giroux. My name is Danny.”

 

Giroux lifts his arm away, revealing muzzy, sleep-crusted eyes. “I know that. I’m saying, call me Claude.”

 

Danny breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay Claude. I can do that.”

 

Claude smiles to himself like he’s clutching a secret to his chest. “You say my name correctly.”

 

Danny chuckles. “I am French, you know.”

 

“You say it better than the rest of them, Danny,” Claude asserts,  and the little whisper of air that escapes at the end travels straight into Danny’s heart. His breath hitches in his throat, and he has to fight to speak next.

 

“Do you know the drill? Name, date, location, birthday, Canadian prime minister.”

 

Claude recites all of the facts effortlessly, so Danny moves on to the next round of questions. “Are you nauseous? Dizzy? Lightheaded?”

 

“A little bit of each,” admits Claude. “And the pills helped, but my head is still killing me.”

 

“Hmm,” hums Danny, and he leaves the room and grabs a hand towel, soaks it in cold water and carries it back into the guest room where he places the cool cloth against Claude’s head. 

 

Claude smirks. “Are you this nice with all of the rookies?” 

 

“Only the ones who get knocked out three games into their time with the team.”

 

Claude frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

 

“I’m joking, Claude. No one blames you.” 

 

Claude’s face relaxes, and Danny’s heart stutters at the soft expression on his face. He smiles sleepily at Danny. “You’re a good man, Danny.”

 

Danny snorts. “You don’t know the half of it.”

 

“Divorce happens,” Claude says, and Danny’s stomach sinks. “Just because one thing falls apart, doesn’t mean you can’t build something else to replace it.”

 

Danny pauses. “When did rookies start talking like that?”

 

Claude’s smile widens. “Since thirty year old dads started needing to hear it.”

 

With that, he drifts back asleep, leaving Danny thoroughly nonplussed. Danny wanders into the kitchen only to find a thin, blackened crust coating the chicken. He eats the meal anyways, alone in his too-large house, and he thinks that he needs to never live alone. He needs his kids, he needs his family, and maybe somewhere along the way, he’ll need someone else. Someone with soft ginger hair who likes the way Danny says his name. 

 

The sun shines yellow out and glorious out of the window the next morning, illuminating the soft edges of Claude’s face. He’s so young, and Danny doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful, save for the sight of his healthy baby boys at each of their births. 

 

Claude opens his eyes, and the light gleams off of his pale orange hair, rendering it almost yellow. “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” says Danny, and he thinks he could get used to this sight in the morning.

  
  
  


_ Vert _

 

Philadelphia has its first truly green spring day the day after the Flyers lose their last playoff game of the season. The verdant leaves and bright sprigs of flowers sparkle against the sunlight as Danny and Claude stroll side by side across the street. They’re dressed inconspicuously, Claude in jeans and black hoodie, Danny in a basic collared shirt and simple khakis. Claude jokes that Danny looks like a dad. Danny reminds him that he already is one.

 

They stop inside one of the cafes on the street and order a coffee each. Normally Claude refuses to drink caffeine after one in the afternoon, but on the first official day of the offseason, he allows himself a small treat. The barista drizzles in caramel syrup and paints a pattern of white cream into the top. Danny smiles as he peers over the lip of the mug when Claude sets it down in front of himself.

 

“Indulging yourself?” teases Danny.

 

“Not all of us like that green tea crap you drink,” says Claude, wrinkling his nose. “And it’s the offseason. Let me have my fun.”

 

“Far be it from me to deny you fun,” says Danny. 

 

Claude smiles one of his rare, genuinely sweet smiles and Danny can’t help but smile in return. After such a painful loss, he fully expected to wait weeks, maybe months, to see true enjoyment, but just a day later, here it is.

 

“What is it?” says Claude, sipping his coffee. 

 

“What is what?” asks Danny.

 

“You’re looking at me strangely.” A small milk mustache now covers Claude’s actual mustache.

 

Danny taps the side of his glass, the one containing the iced green tea Claude loathes so very much. “You just seem happy. I didn’t expect you to be so happy the day after we lost.”

 

Claude frowns pensively and sets down his mug. “I suppose it hasn’t fully sunk  in yet,” he says, switching to French. Unlike Danny, who’s spent well over a decade living in English speaking Ameria, Claude still displays a strong preference for French, particularly when discussing more personal, private matters. Danny loves French, loves speaking it with Claude, but Claude definitely relies on it more heavily than Danny has in a long time. He continues: “I’m sure tomorrow or the day after I’ll feel miserable like I’m supposed to, but right now, it’s just such a beautiful day.”

 

“It is that,” agrees Danny.

 

“Plus, it’s been weeks since we’ve hung out,” he adds.

 

“Claude, I see you every single day,” points out Danny.

 

“Sorry, I should say, it’s been weeks since we’ve spent time alone, without the team, without the boys, without anyone else around.”

 

Danny’s heart clenches. “Do you like doing that?”

 

Claude shoots him a strange look. “Of course I do. Danny, you’re one of my best friends.”

 

Danny takes comfort in those words, but they still rankle at him. He supposes Claude is technically one of his best friends, but he also feels like so much more, like an entirely different category. There are his friends and then Claude. There are his teammates and then Claude. Claude is...if not quite family, not in the way his boys are, nearly as important.

 

“You have that look again,” says Claude, smiling over his coffee. “What is it now? Am I still too happy?”

 

“No, no,” says Danny. “I’m just thinking, that even though we’ve lived together for a year and known each other even longer, there’s still so much I don’t know about you.”

 

Claude shrugs. “Not sure what there is to know. I’m French-Canadian, I play hockey, I like good beers. It’s not too complicated.”

 

“But there’s more,” insists Danny. “Who was your first kiss? First girlfriend? If you weren’t playing hockey, what would you want to do? Do you want to move back to Quebec after all of this is over?”

 

Claude laughs. “Slow down, twenty questions. Is this a slumber party?”

 

“No, it’s not. It’s just two friends discovering things they should have already known about each other.”

 

Claude stirs his coffee, permanently disturbing the cream patterns once and for all. “First girlfriend was Olivia LaFlage,” he finally says. “If I wasn’t playing hockey, I think I’d like to teach, maybe gym class or something. Be a coach. As for after I’m done with hockey, well, that depends on several factors. I do like Philly quite a bit.”

 

“And the first kiss?” asks Danny.

 

“Joe,” says Claude simply.

 

“Joe, as in Joanna?”

 

“No, Joe as in Joseph.” Claude looks directly into the dwindling remains of his drink. “Joseph Gardinier, seventh grade. We played together in middle school.”

 

Danny’s heart quickens at the revelation. “Was it a one time thing?” 

 

Claude remains silent for a long time, and Danny fears he’s pushed too far, ruined the afternoon. He swallows a swig of his green tea, and the liquid tastes bitter sliding down his throat. Finally, Claude says, “No. It wasn’t, not with him. There were other guys too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” says Danny quietly. 

 

“It’s fine,” says Claude. He looks up at Danny and Danny notices for the first time the green flecks in Claude’s hazel eyes. “I don’t mind telling you.”

 

Danny places his hand over Claude’s, and Claude’s eyes widen. “Good.”

  
  
  


_ Bleu _

 

“He’s only ten years older than Caelan,” says Sylvie.

 

They’re standing by the local pool in Haddonfield on one of those fiendishly hot days where the sun melts your skin away and leaves you with nothing behind but your sluggish brain and your pulsing heart. A royal blue canopy provides some semblance of shade, which is why Danny and Sylvie have retreated beneath it even as Claude and the boys splash around in the aquamarine pool. On days like these, the lukewarm water provides only minimal relief from the baking air.

 

“What does that matter?”  asks Danny. “There are plenty of guys younger than him on the team. Doesn’t mean they can’t play great hockey.”

 

“I’m not talking about hockey.” She purses her lips. “I’m talking about you, or the two of you.”

 

“He’s moving out, if that’s what you’re on about. And he was never a bad influence on any of the kids--he behaved very well, especially compared to some of the other young players.”

 

Sylvie crosses her arms and squares her shoulders. Her eyes flash dangerously as she faces Danny she sets her mouth in an expression with which he’s entirely too familiar following the divorce.

 

“I know Claude has been remarkably devoted to the boys, but I’m actually worried about you in this situation. Worried about Claude as well, if you can believe it.”

 

“Since when do you care about either of us?” He winces immediately. “I’m sorry, that was harsh.”

 

“Yes, it was,” she agrees stonily. “But I’m going to ignore it for now because I think you need to hear this, and I’m the only one who will tell you. Whatever you’re doing with Claude, you need to be careful.”

 

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks slowly, even though he already suspects he knows the answer.

 

She directs her gaze at Claude, whom Carson and Cameron have just pushed beneath the water, shrieking with delight, while Caelan wrestles Carson away. “I don’t know if you’re doing anything yet, but at his age, a relationship with someone like you might limit him in ways he doesn’t fully understand. He’s so young, Danny.”

 

“We already had multiple children when we were twenty three.”

 

“Yes, but they weren’t half our age. They were newborns. It’s different.”

 

Danny searches and finds no flaw in her argument, but he knows she’s wrong on the other front. Claude isn’t Danny at twenty-three. Claude is Claude, and Claude is his own entity, unbeholden to Danny’s youthful mistakes. 

 

“We know what we’re doing,” he says. “Claude knows, I know. We’re not flinging ourselves into anything without careful thought.”

 

Sylvie sighs as Claude reemerges from the water, shaking loose droplets from his ginger hair with a toss of his head. Cameron climbs on top of him, and Carson yells at Claude for spraying him with water. Claude catches Danny’s eye and he smiles broadly before Caelan forcefully shoves him back into the glimmering blue water of the pool.

 

“Just don’t let it hurt the kids,” she says at long last. “They really love him.”

 

“He loves them too.”

 

“I know,” she says, but the tone in her voice suggests the thought provides no comfort.

 

Beneath the shimmering turquoise of the water, Claude’s hair billows out behind him and his body move with unexpected grace. Danny knows this time is different. He knows it is.

  
  
  


_ Indigo _

 

Claude slouches against the couch, exhausted after yet another long game, another loss and to Pittsburgh no less. They’ve already deposited the boys at their respective locations for the night--Carson and Caelan at friends for a sleepover, Cameron in bed--and the wear and tear of the season has begun its slow encroach at this day in February. They’re still vying for a playoff spot, but they will need to work.

 

“Rough night,” says Danny.

 

Claude simply nods and shifts the ice pack pressed against his thigh. Deep into the second period, he blocked a slapshot with his body, and the rapidly developing bruise promises to be truly impressive. Danny tosses him a bottle of tylenol and sets a glass of water on the coffee table.

 

“Might help,” he says, gesturing the pain relievers.

 

“If I used tylenol for every bruise I had, I’d go through a bottle a week,” says Claude, easing his body back against the cushions.

 

“Most bruises aren’t from slapshots,” points out Danny, but the bottle remains untouched. “How’s the one on your side from last week?”

 

Claude pokes an area just beneath his ribcage on the bottom right and winces. His t-shirt hides yet another spectacular bruise, this one already in the greenish yellow stage of development. Danny knows the answer already. It hurts. They always do.

 

“Letang got an elbow in there today,” says Claude. He swears under his breath, face darkening. “Same spot, the asshole.”

 

Letang couldn’t have known, but it’s not the point. The point is they’re both battered and bruised, Claude especially so, and Danny feels the surface of their patience, of their relationship, of their lives wearing thinner with each passing day. He hates the sensation, hates even more that there’s no way to halt it, at least not until the offseason when they can spend time together alone.

 

The idea dawns on Danny slowly. 

 

“What if we went away?”

 

“Went away where?” snorts Claude, closing his eyes. “And when? We have games every other day.”

 

“Not next week, we don’t. We have three days off from games, and two days without a mandatory skate.”

 

“So?” says Claude, eyes still closed.

 

“So we could find a little place, spend the day together with no one else around. It’s not impossible.”

 

Claude squints his eyes at Danny. “Where could we go? We’d need to find a place that’s close enough for such a short period of time and far enough away that no one knows who we are.”

 

Danny grins. “I bet I could find us a spot.”

  
  


The next week finds Claude and Danny pulling into a petit bed and breakfast halfway between Philadelphia and Harrisburg on the outskirts of Amish country. They drove over one hundred and fifty miles and down a winding dirt road but in the end, Danny believes they’ve succeeded in finding somewhere anonymous.

 

“What the hell is this place?” asks Claude, regarding the house skeptically.

 

“Richie recommended it, said the old lady here only has a television from 1985 at the latests and only uses it to watch reruns of the Ed Sullivan show. There’s no way she knows who we are.”

 

The house itself is an oddity--indigo, ornate trimming decorates the snow white white exterior, which is itself clearly carefully maintained. A rusting tractor sits firmly in a ditch on the side of the driveway, its green paint peeling away to reveal a blackened interior, and several garden gnomes poke out from the wild, untamed flower beds surrounding the porch. Danny chuckles at the Claude’s highly suspicious expression.

 

“You’re positive she won’t murder us in our beds?”

 

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” says Danny. “One frail, elderly woman versus two professional hockey players in their prime.”

 

“Speak for yourself, old man” says Claude, nudging Danny in his side.

 

Danny just pinches Claude’s arm and smirks when he yelps. He pulls his duffel bag out of the side of the car and marches up towards the house, Claude trailing several feet behind. They knock on the door (a sign next to the doorbell informs them it’s broken) and wait nearly two minutes before the door finally opens.

 

At first, Danny doesn’t see her, but then he looks down. The woman standing before him is at most five feet tall, her gray is hair pulled in a tight bun, and she sports a floral nightgown which Danny can only assume is homemade. She regards both of them coolly.

 

“Daniel Briere?” she says in a shaky, high pitched voice.

 

Danny steps forward. “That’s me. I have a room for two nights.”

 

She allows herself a moment to survey the two men in front of her--and surely it hasn’t escaped her attention that they are two men with only a single room booked--but she leads them upstairs at an impressive pace for a woman of her age and size. As it so happens, the other room across the hall from them will be empty for the duration of the stay due to a last minute cancellation, so they have the pick of the rooms.

 

Claude steps into the room on the left, then turns around and walks into the one on the right. “This one,” he tells Danny. “We’ll take this one.”

 

The entire room is a pale shade of violet-blue, indigo perhaps, and the entire place reeks of old-fashioned charm. It’s both hideous in its intricacies (lace doilies and an ornate old wagon wheel mounted above the fireplace) and elegant in its confidence. This is no hotel room, but a room designed for two people who need only each other.

 

Danny reaches for Claude’s hand. “I think you’re right.”

 

Ethel, as they discover her name is, leaves them well enough alone that evening. Danny lies on top of the covers of the bed and strokes Claude’s thigh as Claude sits in bed, glasses on in order to read his book. Danny pokes the bruised spot and Claude glares at him.

 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asks.

 

“Trying to get your attention,” he says. “Is it working?”

 

Claude rolls his eyes but sets down his book so Danny considers the mission a success.

 

“What do you want?” Claude asks.

 

“You,” says Danny simply. “That’s all I want.”

 

Claude smirks. “I shudder to think what Coach would say if he heard you say that. What about the Cup?”

 

“Oh I want the Cup too,” says Danny. “But that’s not really relevant right now, is it? We’re more than a hundred miles away from Philly, from the rest of the team, from my boys and anything to worry about. For a day, I get to just want you and nothing else.”

 

Claude sucks in a quick breath. “That’s an awfully appealing thought.”

 

“I think so too,” says Danny. He rolls on top of Claude and carefully removes his reading glasses. Claude barely needs them, but he likes to avoid the headaches which accompany reading occasionally if he forgoes them. For what’s about to happen, his vision will do just fine.

 

They make love quietly to avoid waking Ethel, who sleeps in a room downstairs. Danny’s positive she must know what’s happening, but the idea of a woman who probably predates sliced bread hearing him and Claude have sex isn’t exactly a turnon. Danny relishes the flush which spreads across Claude’s cheeks, and he kisses him up and down his neck to show his appreciation. When Claude’s hands clench the sheets, he knows he’s done his job.

 

The next morning, Danny decides they ought to go for a run. Claude grumbles loudly, but apparently Danny actually enjoys distance running and he insists they do at least one fitness related exercise to compensate for the missed optional skate. Despite the approach of spring, the wind still whips shrilly against their skin, and Claude complains his face is numb only ten minutes into the run. Danny presses on, undaunted by the cold, until they reach the destination he had in mind.

 

“Isn’t this nice?” They’ve arrived at a covered bridge, one of those rickety wooden structures Danny’s only ever seen on postcards before. The road is entirely deserted, and the only sounds around them are the steady panting of their breaths and the rush of the slushy river beneath the bridge. Beyond the bridge a forest begins, branches still laden with the remnants of last week’s snow, and the trees cast long shadows over the ground in the morning light.

 

“It would be nicer if I could still feel my face,” huffs out Claude. He holds out his hands and shakes them vigorously. “I think I left behind my fingers somewhere by that last sign for Uncle Sal’s handcrafted chairs.”

 

Danny takes Claude’s hands and begins rubbing them, trying to restore some blood flow to the white, cold skin. Claude smirks and pulls Danny in for a long, lingering kiss, one which does more to restore heat to Danny’s face than a warm fire ever could. The walls of the covered bridge block any wind running down the river, and for a moment, nothing exists except for the feel of Claude’s lips against his own and Claude’s hair in his hands and the burning, burning love he feels for the man in front of him.

 

Claude begins to shiver despite the heat of their kiss, and Danny releases him with a smile. Claude ducks his head beneath the weight of Danny’s gaze, and suddenly he points to something on the ground.

 

“Looks like spring is just around the corner,” he says.

 

A small crocus has shoved its way through the half-frozen muddy earth. Its delicate indigo petals straddle the valley between a violet mountain and a blue sea in color, and a small burst of yellow pokes out from the middle. It must be a hardy little flower to survive the cold.

 

“You know,” murmurs Danny, pressing his body against Claude’s, “I’ve always thought of you as a flower.”

 

Claude scowls. “A flower? Really?”

 

“Hmm,” Danny hums against Claude’s neck. “When I first saw you, you reminded me of this flower my maman kept above the kitchen sink. It was--how do you call it?-- _ un pavot _ .  _ Un pavot orange _ .”

 

Claude nuzzles his face against Danny. “I suppose that’s not terrible.”

 

“ _ Tu es mon pavot _ ,” says Danny, and Claude smiles reluctantly. 

 

“If I’m  _ un pavot _ then you’re that crocus. Short and sturdy and tough as hell, ready to bust through the ice at any moment.”

 

Danny chuckles. “I could get used to that.”

 

Claude mumbles, “ _ Un pavot _ .  _ Un pavot _ .” His smile burns the cold from the ground and the ice from Danny’s skin. “I love you, you know,” he says softly.

 

Danny wraps him in his arms. “ _ Je t’adore, mon pavot _ .”

  
  
  


_ Violet _

 

Danny arrives in Germany with a pit of trepidation in his gut. Claude accompanies him, of course, but the land, the language and the people all spread before him in a strange conglomeration of unfamiliarity. Both of them learned English as a second language, so Germany is already a third, and much harder one, and its harsh sounds clack against his tongue unpleasantly. Still, hockey is hockey, even without the sea of orange to cheer them on and their teammates to chirp at them in the locker room. Within the first week, though, they’ve settled into a sort of routine, and life regains its sense of balance.

 

Germany is not the United States or Canada in many respects, but the most notable difference for Claude and Danny is the relative anonymity and the freedom which accompanies their lack of notoriety. They still tread carefully around one another in public, but on a quiet evening in Berlin outside of their favorite cafe, Claude kisses Danny. Only a few strangers still stroll the streets, and they needn’t fear recognition. The swell of unfettered joy rising within Danny’s heart brings with it a tinge of sadness. If such a simple gesture of affection in public elicits this strong of a reaction, how much are they missing by hiding their relationship? Danny hasn’t known anything else but secrecy and intimacy shown only behind closed doors for such a long time, he realizes he’s forgotten how to live without fear. The thought saddens him.

 

Still, for as long as the lockout continues, he intends to enjoy his time with Claude. He misses his children with a fierce ache, but Claude’s gentle touch helps to alleviate the pain of their absence. His touch helps with most things, come to think of it.

 

One of their more perceptive teammates notices the affection between the two of them and correctly guesses the nature of their relationship. Fortunately for them, he too happens to be gay, and so one evening, Karl pulls them aside as they leave practice.

 

“You need to come out with me tonight,” he says in his thick German accent. “I want to show you both something.”

 

Claude shrugs, and since they have no plans for the remainder of the evening, they accept his offer. They follow Karl back to his apartment, and immediately Danny begins to suspect he’s out of his league.

 

Karl pulls out several sequined, brightly colored shirts from his closet and begins holding them up to both Claude and Danny.

 

“I really don’t see a situation where I’m wearing anything like that,” says Danny drily. 

 

“Maybe not for you,” he says, frowning.”Something black for you, perhaps, but for G, it would be a shame to not do something with that hair, ja?”

 

Claude appears faintly green, but he accepts a rather violently purple silk shirt from Karl without protest. Danny stifles a fit of giggles, but the moment Karl pulls out an eyeshadow pallette, the laughs burst through full force. Claude glares at him, then directs his attention to Karl.

 

“Karl,” he says in a tight voice, “I am not wearing any makeup.”

 

“Just a little eyeshadow to match the dress,” promises Karl. “You won’t stand out at all where we’re going.”

 

“What about Danny?” he asks indignantly. “Doesn’t he get any?”

 

“Danny will not look as good. You on the other hand,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I think I can make this work.”

 

Claude hides behind Danny throughout the entire walk to the club, ducking his head and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Karl leads them happily, jabbering on in harried German before remembering his guests speak at most a dozen words of the language and switching to English, only to forget once more five minutes later and return to his native tongue. Danny tugs Claude along, muttering in French from time to time in an attempt to soothe his worries, but even he cannot contain a gasp when they step inside the club.

 

Everything glows with a fluorescent violet color, washing out pale people like Giroux casting an eerie aura around them. Karl drags them over to the bar where he introduces them to the bartender and orders a round. At first, Danny finds it strange that men outnumber women so disproportionately and that what few women are present seem to be exceptionally tall, but then he hears one of them speak and realizes there are likely no women present at all tonight, only men and men in drag.

 

“This is a gay club,” hisses Danny to Claude.

 

Claude rolls his eyes. “Where did you think Karl was taking us?” 

 

“I had no idea,” said Danny. “Is this why you kept complaining the whole way over here?”

 

Claude nods patiently as he waits for Danny’s brain to catch up with everyone else’s. Karl glances at the two of them, smiles, and resumes his discussion with the bartender in very loud German so as to be heard over the thumping music. 

 

Several men eye Claude as they pass by, trailing their eyes appreciatively over his body and his face. Danny thinks the eyeshadow doesn’t actually look objectively terrible, but it’s so far removed from the Claude he knows that the sight of it unsettles him. Unthinkingly, he reaches out to brush some of the color from Claude’s eyelid. It remains fixed, and Danny realizes he needs actual makeup remover if he wishes to return Claude to his natural state.

 

“Is there a problem with my makeup?” teases Claude.

 

“It’s just different, is all,” he says. “I’m not used to it.”

 

“Well those guys over there sure seem to like it,” Claude says, pointing to three men gathered not ten feet away, all ogling him. “Maybe I should ask one of them if he wants to--oof!”

 

Danny cuts him off by kissing him harshly. Then he remembers they’re in public and he jumps away, terrified by his audacity. He waits for someone to gawk at them, to point and shout, but the music thumps on and everyone continues with their own lives. Of course. It’s a gay club. Kissing other men is what’s expected here.

 

Claude regards him curiously and not without a little fondness. The three men who had been watching him before have retreated, much to Danny’s delight, and even Karl appears to have found a prospective hookup for the night in the form of a skinny blond man with slicked back hair and a too-tight tank top stretched across his narrow chest. Though Danny understands none of the words being spoken, the tone of Karl’s voice suggests a great deal of interest on his part.

 

“Hey, look at me,  _ regardes-moi _ ,” orders Claude. Danny obeys. “Nobody cares, Danny. We can do whatever we want here.” He smiles in wonderment. “We can do whatever we want here,” he repeats.

 

The pure elation on Claude’s face is enough to make Danny physically pull him in tight and smash their lips together, kissing Claude with all of the freedom and carelessness never afforded to them before. Claude responds enthusiastically, slipping his hand underneath Danny’s tight black shirt. Danny tangles his hands in Claude’s soft curls and presses as much of his body against Claude as he can possibly manage. The crush of their bodies, the heat of the room and the pulse of the music all blend the moments of that night together until they form a single violet and orange blur, an amalgamation of passionate kisses and desperate hands and the knowledge that no one, no one, no one cares who they are or who they kiss. 

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” murmurs Claude as they stumble back to their apartment at half past two in the morning. “I didn’t think I could ever love someone so much. Why is the world spinning?” He staggers on a loose brick on the street. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

 

Danny pulls Claude closer to him, brushes the fine purple powder set upon Claude’s eyelids. “I don’t know,” he says, but in his mind he thinks,  _ Nothing is so simple back home. Nothing is ever so simple _ .

 

But Claude is drunk and high off the thrill of the night, so Danny holds his doubts close to his chest and lets them settle. 

  
  
  
  


_ Marron _

 

“They bought me out, Claude,” says Danny heavily, hanging up the phone. “They bought out the rest of my contract.”

 

Claude stiffens from where he’s sitting in bed and removes his glasses. “They did what?”

 

“They bought out my contract with the whole compliance buyout deal from the lockout. I’m not playing for the Flyers anymore after the end of this season.”

 

Claude’s hazel eyes flash menacingly. “This is a joke, right? This is some sort of sick, sick joke?”

 

Danny meets his gaze with as much confidence as he can muster. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I just got off the phone with Holmgren”

 

For a moment, Danny thinks Claude might actually spontaneously combust. His face reddens, his mouth clenches, and he balls his hands into fists. Danny wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started billowing from his ears.

 

“That’s bullshit, Danny! That’s such bullshit! They can’t do this to you. We need you on this team, all of us. I need you on this team!:

 

“The Flyers don’t think so,” says Danny quietly.

 

Claude launches himself off the bed and begins pacing frantically. “You know, this is just like Holmgren, to take something good and fuck it up at the first possible opportunity.” He’s seething, spitting as he speaks, and his missing tooth adds a ruggedly terrifying aspect to his expression. “You belong in Philly, everyone knows that!”

 

“Claude--

 

“I’ll talk to him, I’ll talk to Holmgren, I’ll talk to Laviolette. I’m the captain now, they have to listen to me.”

 

“Claude, please--

 

“I’m sick of them thinking they can just do shit like this without a second thought to the people on the skates. It’s all about the money, for them, all about the money!”

 

“Claude, listen to me!” yells Danny. 

 

Claude stops his pacing, but the fuming continues. His eyes burn in their sockets, and Danny just feels hollow.

 

“What, Danny, what do you want to say?”

 

“I want to say that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He lowers his head. “I had no idea this would happen.”

 

Claude explodes. “Why should you be sorry? They’re the ones who should be sorry! I’ll go in there, I’ll tell them that if they buy you out, I’m resigning effective immediately as captain of this team, as a player of this team.”

 

“No, you won’t,” says Danny. Claude glares at him.

 

“Who says I won’t?”

 

“I say you won’t,” says Danny, raising his voice slightly. “I say you won’t, because you’ve worked too hard to be captain and I will not see you throw your career away on account of me! You will not do that yourself or to me or to any of the people who love you!”

 

Claude pauses. “My career isn’t--

 

“No, your career is as important as it’s always been, which is to say it’s very fucking important,” says Danny. “Do you have any idea how proud I was when Lavvy named you captain? Do you have any fucking clue?”

 

Claude remains perfectly still.

 

“I was so proud,” says Danny, and he hates the catch in his voice. “You deserved it more than anyone else, and the thought of you limiting yourself on my account just kills me, do you understand?” He sighs softly. “I knew this would happen, Claude. Not this specifically, but something like it. I’m old, much older than you.”

 

“Ten years isn’t that much,” mumbles Claude.

 

“When it comes to hockey, yes it is,” says Danny frankly. “We’re at two entirely different stages of our careers. You’re just beginning to enter your prime. I’m leaving mine. Aging hockey players get moved around. There’s no way to avoid it.”

 

Claude stands before Danny, muscles shaking, limbs trembling, breathing heavily. He stares at Danny with such fervent emotion Danny wants to cry. Logically, he knows there can be no other way, but every fiber of his being shrieks for him to abandon all control and just  _ feel  _ and  _ react _ like Claude is. But one of them has to play the role of reason, and in this situation, the role falls to Danny. 

 

“We’ll find a way,” assures Danny. “Maybe I’ll end up in New Jersey with the Devils. They’re not too far away. Hell, Pittsburgh wouldn’t be such a terrible option from that perspective.”

 

“You’re not playing with the Penguins,” says Claude petulantly, and Danny chuckles.

 

“I don’t know,  _ pavot _ , maybe Crosby will be just the captain I need,” he says, smirking.

 

Claude dives onto the bed and tackles Danny, pinning him to the mattress. His gaze promises murder, a prolonged, painful death. “That’s not funny.”

 

Danny presses a soft kiss to Claude’s temple. “It’s a little funny.”

 

Claude slumps against Danny and releases the tension tightening his limbs. His arms drape bonelessly across Danny’s chest, and he strokes a small scar just below the collarbone, the unfortunate result of a childhood attempt at skateboarding. Claude’s fingers linger on the end of the jagged line, and he kisses Danny’s neck.

 

“We’ll make it work,” promises Danny. “We’ll find a way.”

 

He stares at the mud-colored wagon wheel mounted across from the bed in their room, a reminder of their stint in the bed in breakfast. 

 

Claude says nothing, and his silence chips away at Danny’s heart.

  
  
  
  


_ Noir _

 

“I can’t do it anymore,” says Claude, speaking into the phone.

 

He’s standing outside his car in Montreal, ten yards from the Hab’s arena. Claude listens on the other end of the line, and Danny hears the soft puff of his breath against the phone. 

 

“Did you hear me, Danny? I said I can’t do it.” His voice sounds muffled as it stretches across hundreds of miles of North America. 

 

“I heard you,” says Danny. “Are you serious? Are you actually breaking up with me right now?”

 

“Danny, it’s--” Claude’s voice breaks for a moment, but he regains control--”it’s too much.”

 

“What? What is too much for you all of the sudden?”

 

“The distance, the hiding, the uncertainty,” says Claude, almost clinically.

 

Nausea rises in the back of Danny’s throat. “The first two are temporary. As for the third, I have never, never, never been uncertain about my feelings for you. You must know that.”

 

“Danny,” pleads Claude, “please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. Please let me do this.”

 

“I’m not letting you do anything,” says Danny harshly. “You’re doing exactly what you want, regardless of the way I feel.”

 

“I don’t want to do this, Danny.”

 

“Then don’t do it.”

 

“But I have to. I have to do it.” Danny hears Claude gulp. “So I’m doing it for me, and for you and for your family.”

 

Danny leans back against his car. A droplet of moisture burns as it passes over his cheeks, and he wipes it away furiously. “This isn’t fair.”

 

“No, it’s not,” agrees Claude. “But I don’t see any other way.”

 

Danny hangs up his phone before Claude has the chance to say anything more, to attempt to explain himself to a man who needs only to hear anything else, to hear  _ Danny, I know it’s been hard, but I love you, I love you, I love you and we’ll make it work _ .

 

More water falls on his cheeks, but this time the water chills his face. Danny faces skyward and sees that the black stormclouds which have been looming over Montreal all day have finally begun to burst at the seams, releasing their burden onto the charcoal-colored asphalt. In late March, the wind still bears the tint of frost, and the water freezes as it explodes upon the ground.

 

Or maybe that’s just the warmth within Danny. Frozen. Gone.

 

He ignores the phone as it rings. 

  
  
  
  


_ Rose _

 

When Danny retires after a string of injuries, first with the Habs, then with the Avs, he receives an invitation to return to Philadelphia for the ceremony. He considers the offer intently before finally accepting it, then steels himself for the event to occur only a few short weeks away. With Claude still the captain of the Flyers, he will be the one to shake Danny’s hand and congratulate him on an impressive career in the NHL. He will look Danny in the eyes, and every day Danny bolts awake with the image of Claude’s hazel eyes seared across his brain.

 

In short, what ought to be a joyous, celebratory experience has already begun to haunt him before it even occurs. 

 

Still, as a hockey player, his coaches drilled a mantra of toughness and steel and grit into his core until those qualities so firmly embedded themselves in his being that the boundary between him and them is nothing more than a gradient, impossible to remove without removing a chunk of himself as well. He has faced worse, or so he tells himself. He will stand them and smile in front of thousands of people and pretend the man in front of him never broke his heart.

 

Once Danny stands on the ice, surrounded by his boys, he gathers strength from the loud outpouring of support from the Flyers’ fans and the quieter strength of his family. He plasters on a grin for the cameras before dropping the puck and shakes hands with the opposing team’s captain before facing Claude.

 

Claude’s smile never reaches his eyes, but stops short in the corners of his mouth. A thin orange beard covers his face, reminiscent of playoff beards past but more well-maintained than any of those had been. He pulls Danny into a brief hug, and he smells exactly how Danny remembers--musky, rough and with a slight hint of ginger from his shampoo. Danny’s gut clenches, an instinctual reaction to Claude’s presence, and for a moment, Danny allows himself to feel Claude’s hand on his back and pretend.

 

Then the moment is over, and Danny needs to watch the game.

 

The game itself is not especially memorable--the Flyers play well, blossoming beneath Claude’s leadership apparently--and Claude spends the requisite amount of time with members of the Flyers organization in the press box. His boys enjoy the game, Cameron especially, who’s still young enough to have some reverence for his father, but every time a flash of ginger hair crosses his line of vision, he fights the urge to scream.

 

After the game, he pays a visit to the Flyers locker room to visit several of his old teammates. Even with Claude there, boys like Coots and Schenn (no longer boys, no longer so naive) still know him and deserve at least a hello on this momentous night. Everyone cheers when he steps into the room, and a sea of hands mob him, slapping his back, ruffling his hair. It feels for a brief moment like 2012 with him in the locker room as number 48 Danny Briere, a respected veteran of the team. But then he’s in a suit, and everyone else is half-naked or still covered in their hockey gear, providing a stark, visual reminder that they are not the same.

 

Claude is talking to the coach, but Danny doesn’t linger in order to see him. After another round of congratulations, Danny steps out the door of the locker room and prepares for the long drive home.

 

“Danny!” shouts Claude. “Danny, wait!”

 

Danny freezes, but he refuses to face Claude. He waits for Claude to jog over to him, barely dressed with hastily thrown on sweatpants and an old Phillies sweatshirt covering him up. He runs a hand through his damp hair as he stands before Danny, and when he speaks, he speaks with a rare hesitation.

 

“I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon.”

 

“No reason to stay,” says Danny shortly.

 

Claude flinches, but seems to accept Danny’s statement. “I know you probably have no desire to see me right now, but I...I couldn’t let you walk away like that. Not without seeing you again.” His eyes roam over Danny, appraising him. “You look really good, Danny.”

 

Danny nods stiffly. 

 

Sensing Danny’s recalcitrance, Claude continues, “I heard you were planning on retiring in Philly, maybe moving back into the old Haddonfield place.” Another stiff nod from Danny. “I was thinking, it might be good to talk, at some point. We never really had our chance to talk before, and I know that’s largely my fault, but I hate it, Danny. I hate not speaking to you. I figured,  since we’re both in the same city now, maybe we get coffee. Just once.”

 

Danny maintains a flat expression throughout all of Claude’s speech, but the last plea irks him. 

 

“Coffee. Like a date or something?” he spits out bitterly.

 

“No,” says Claude evenly, although something in his eyes hints at the existence of some inner turmoil. “Like two people who haven’t talked in far too long. Who need to get to know each other again.”

 

“I’ll see,” says Danny, and Claude correctly reads his response as a  _ no _ . 

 

“I understand,” he says quietly. “I just have one last request.” He pulls out an envelope from the pocket of the sweatshirt and hands it to Danny. “Open it when you get home. My number’s still the same.”

 

Danny pockets the envelope. The tension between them lies thick in the air, laden with years of buried love and other years of unbearable heartbreak. Finally, Claude backs away, and with a last hand on the shoulder, he retreats to the Flyers locker room and to his life as their captain. It’s everything Danny dreamed for them, except without him in the picture. 

 

He waits until the boys have fallen asleep before opening the envelope. He expects to find a letter, handwritten perhaps, filled with an explanation or regrets or apologies or maybe even a plea for them to create a friendship, as if Danny Briere could ever be just friends with Claude Giroux. Instead of a letter, he finds a photograph, one which must be at least five years old. It depicts the five of them, Danny, Claude, Caelan, Carson and Cameron, dressed in suits for some fancy event they all attended.  He recognizes it from the time Claude first lived in the Briere household, and he chuckles upon seeing the mops masquerading as hair on top of Caelan’s and Caron’s heads as well as his own awkwardly long hair style. Claude still wore his hair in soft curls then, unlike the tidier, shorter cut he favors now. While Danny’s sons have obviously aged the most in the time since this picture, he’s still startled by his own earnest smile peering out from the photograph, by Claude’s easy grin and laid back posture. He’s wearing a truly atrocious skinny hot pink tie, and suddenly Danny misses Claude with an intensity he thought he’d left behind long ago.

 

He flips the photograph over and sees something scrawled in Claude’s scribbled handwriting. Upon closer inspection, it reads,  _ You were wrong--career was never as important as this. _

 

Danny’s hand clutches his phone in his pocket. He flips the photograph back over and sees himself as truly happy, the eons happier than the man he’s seen in the mirror these past two years.

 

_ Hi _ , he texts to a number he never deleted.  _ Coffee? _

  
  
  


_ Rouge _

 

Claude steps inside the Haddonfield house for the first time in years, and Danny fights back the urge to ask him to begin cooking dinner or check the boys’ equipment or perform some other menial household task unbefitting of a guest but entirely appropriate for the Claude Giroux of years past. Present day Claude carries a box with him, and he fidgets uncomfortably in the foyer.

 

“You still remember the way to the kitchen?” asks Danny.

 

“I could never forget,” says Claude, stamping off some of the dirt from his boots on the floor mat. 

 

Claude follows Danny into the kitchen, trailing several feet behind. Little has changed since Claude lived here, save for Cameron’s lacrosse sticks now accompanying Carson’s and Caelan’s hockey equipment and a new armchair to replace one ruined several years ago. The house is above all else a testament to the permanence Danny envisioned for his life in Philly before the buyout destroyed those dreams. Memories adorn these walls, and the ones related to Claude seem to quiver at the surface now that the man himself has returned.

 

“Can I get you anything?” asks Danny. “Water? Beer?”

 

“Water if you have it,” says Claude, and Danny deposits a cup beneath the sink to let it fill. Once it’s acceptably full, he hands it over to Claude. Claude lays down the box on the counter in order to pick it up.

 

“Still looks the same,” notes Claude. “I see you haven’t picked up any interior design skills in your retirement.”

 

“I have a job,” Danny reminds him. “I find ways to keep busy.”

 

Claude nods and sets down the glass, glances at the box. 

 

Danny bites.

 

“You brought a gift? At least, I assume you’re not just carrying that thing randomly around.”

 

“No, no, it’s for you,” says Claude hurriedly. “I just wasn’t sure if I should give it to you right away. Timing’s never been my strong suit.”

 

Danny wonders at the meaning of the gift. In the months since his return to Philly, Danny and Claude have found at least one day a week for time to talk. At first, as Claude suggested, they met at a coffee shop, one halfway between Philly and Haddonfield. There Claude drank his coffee (he takes it black now) and Danny sipped his green tea (that much hasn’t changed) and the two of them discovered the new boundaries of their new relationship by carefully feeling at the cracks and edges of their old one. Their conversations, particularly the first several meetings, often ventured into uncomfortable territory, but with time familiarity and even a measure of trust returned. For the past three weeks, they met for brunch and whiled away the afternoon with chatter both delicate and edging on dangerous, but always exhilarating, always laden with purpose. This is the first gift they’ve exchanged since the Valentine’s Day before the break up.

 

“Let’s try it now,” says Danny.

 

Claude nods and reaches into the box to pull out a flower. Not just any flower but a poppy, a spectacular  _ pavot rouge _ in full bloom. Claude holds the pot before him, his cheeks rapidly approaching the color of the petals. “I thought it might be appropriate, perhaps.”

 

Danny accepts the pot from Claude with delicate fingers. He rotates the plant around, inspecting it from every angle, admiring the sturdy stem and the graceful curve of the petals as they burst into the air. When he sets it down, Claude has directed his gaze to the floor, though his blushing cheeks ruin his feigned nonchalance.

 

“It’s beautiful,” says Danny, “even if it is  _ un pavot rouge _ and not  _ un pavot orange _ .”

 

Claude appears crestfallen. “Fuck. I didn’t realize--well, I shouldn’t have assumed it was orange. I thought all poppies were orange.”

 

Danny quirks his lips. “Did you not see it before you bought it?”

 

Claude shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Yeah, well, I’m not much good at that sort of thing, being colorblind and all.”

 

Danny hesitates. “You’re colorblind?”

 

Claude nods. “Red-green. Normally it’s fine, doesn’t really matter too much, but I guess I should have asked the lady at the store before I tried to buy a symbolic flower. Devil’s in the details, eh?”

 

Danny shakes his head. “I never knew. All this time, I never knew.”

 

Claude squirms. “Always something new to learn, I guess.”

 

Danny regards Claude carefully. The man before him is no longer a too young, too earnest yet somehow wise beyond his years rookie with a flash of orange hair and a burning desire to succeed. Now, he has succeeded, he has surpassed anything Danny would ever accomplish, and more years support his claims to wisdom. Nor is he the same man who called Danny on the telephone to tell him he was giving up. Danny’s come to know the present Claude with all of his rough edges and hidden pockets of tenderness, just as he remembered. He’s been doubting for so long that enough has changed, though, that the same flaws and fissures wouldn’t open at the slightest pressure as they had before.

 

But maybe, maybe if after all of this time, Claude can still surprise Danny and prove that he contains more than Danny ever imagined, maybe if Claude can save a photograph and write exactly the words needed to open Danny’s heart, maybe if he can stand with his hair burning red and orange in the fading sunset glimmer, maybe…

 

Maybe Danny can find a way to forgive.

 

“Close your eyes,” whispers Danny. 

 

Claude widens his eyes before shutting them, and he stands upright with anticipation.

 

Danny brushes his thumb across Claude’s lower lip and shivers as Claude trembles beneath the touch. He strokes his finger across the bristles of Claude’s beard and trails his hand down Claude’s neck and then down his shoulders until finally his hands rest at the small of his back. He presses a gentle, chaste kiss across Claude’s lips, and the taste is as sweet as any hockey goal, as any Stanley Cup. This is Danny’s victory, his triumph with the orange spark who shook his hand so many years ago. This is his life, he thinks.

 

“Open your eyes.”

  
  
  
  


_ Claude _

 

Claude’s been told on many occasions by many people that being colorblind has deprived him of the true beauty of the world, of the vivid reds and greens, of the sight of his own hair color and the fluorescent orange of the jersey he wears for half the year. 

 

Looking into Danny’s eyes at that moment, he knows they’ve all been wrong. He has the most beautiful sight in the world before him, and he’s not missing a damn thing. 


End file.
